


2012 Abandoned Angst Roundup

by thefrogg



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Community: avengerkink, Do I really have to SAY they had fucked-up childhoods?, I Don't Even Know, I really meant to finish these, M/M, Multi, References to Child Abuse, Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:03:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the can.  Stories I started but abandoned due to Reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Until Death Do We Part.  You Died.  We're Fucking Parted.

**Author's Note:**

> I totally reserve the right to come back and finish these at any point in the future, but right now my brain is otherwise occupied.
> 
> (No references to owl!Clint will be tolerated.)
> 
> As usually, the angst/tearjerker/don't kill me, you're the one who read it warnings apply.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil had reasons for not telling Clint he'd survived, even after waking up from a coma. Clint, on the other hand? Moved on.

"Sir, if I may interrupt?"

Tony almost flinched, finished swallowing, and frowned. "JARVIS?"

The rest of the team paused mid-meal, responding to Tony's apprehension, his reaction to JARVIS' hesitance.

"Director Fury is in the lobby requesting an audience." He paused a moment, then continued. "He has a guest."

"Someone we know?" Steve met Tony's gaze across the table.

"Arguably, Captain Rogers." _That_ response had everyone's hackles up.

"Bring them to the 71st floor, will you? We'll meet them there."

"Of course, sir. If I might suggest - I don't believe either the Hulk or Iron Man are required, but some form of...armor might be wise."

"Glad I washed up for dinner," Tony muttered, tossing his napkin on the table as he stood.

"Widow, Hawkeye, Thor, gear up. Bruce?"

"Don't worry, Captain, I've got the same kind of armor Tony does." Bruce's eyes glinted over a self-deprecating smile.

"Back here, five minutes." Steve knew they could suit up in less. But it would give a bad impression if Fury thought they'd just drop everything just because he saw fit to visit.

~~~

The 71st floor of Avengers Tower housed a single-stage filming studio, conference rooms, a small gym with attached locker room and an observation deck on the opposite wall - in short, all the things they Avengers might need to control media access when necessary.

It also served to separate the public and company-run areas of the tower from the private levels that housed the Avengers.

The fact that Fury _knew_ this, was always annoyed at being relegated to the same level as the _media_ was just a bonus.

At least, that was the general consensus when they met back up on the communal level, Tony and Bruce in impeccably tailored suits (even though Bruce managed somehow to look rumpled, as usual) and the rest of them in their battle gear.

"Cap?" Tony prompted, straightening his bowtie unnecessarily and smoothing the front of his jacket.

"You're really--" Steve chuckled a little fatalistically and shook his head. "Avengers assemble."

The six of them stepped onto the elevator that would take them down fifteen levels, rearranging themselves so they'd leave with Steve in front, shield in hand.

"Glad you decided to join me, Stark," Fury said when the doors parted again, the chime of its arrival fading to nothing.

"You know, party crashers are so passe these days."

"Where's your guest?" Steve asked with forced patience, stepping forward with the others at his back, covering his flanks. The elevator door slid shut behind them. "Or perhaps I should ask who?"

"I'm surprised JARVIS didn't tell you." Fury tilted his head, eyebrow over his one eye raised in question.

"Tell us what?"

"It's me, Clint," and it was the voice of a dead man, weary and worn, but _alive_ as Phil Coulson came into view from the hall.

"Phil."

Steve could only see Clint from the corner of his eye - he won't let Fury out of his sight - but he could tell Clint had gone sniper still despite the tremor in his voice. "You died."

Phil nodded reluctantly. "Twice before they got me to the operating table, three times _on_ the table, once in recovery. I was in a coma--"

"Was," Clint bit out.

"I was in a _coma--"_

"And when you woke up?" Tony's public persona was in full-on face-the-press mode, all bright and shiny smiles and vicious backbiting under the sparkle. "Because somehow I'm finding it hard to believe you're using both arms after spending six months in a coma."

"Take it off." Natasha's voice was soft, the demand and threat implied.

Phil glanced at her, didn't make the mistake of making her explain as he slipped his left arm out of his jacket, pulled his shirt loose and began to undo the buttons. It was obvious he was still recovering, favoring his left side, and then there was pale skin, too pale, and vivid pink scar tissue, exit wound and incisions.

"Satisfied?" Fury asked, bland and bored over Clint's shaky indrawn breath, the faint electric whine of Widow's Bite powering down without a discharge.

"Why? Explain this to me, I don't understand. Why do this? Why wait? If--Even if they didn't know, don't you think I would have wanted to be with you?" Clint's voice trailed to a hoarse whisper, harsh and plaintive.

"I didn't make that call."

"Yeah, well, there are plenty of other reasons for us not to trust Fury, we'll just add that to the list. But you've been _awake--"_

"Tony. Please," Clint whispered, stepping out of formation.

Steve tensed, shield shifting in his grip as Clint moved ahead of him.

"You do not answer, Son of Coul," Thor rumbled softly.

"That's because there's no good answers," Tony muttered.

"Because it was all the six of you could do to keep each other going after--the last thing you needed was--someone else to take care of." Phil caught himself before he could say _the Chitauri,_ say _another burden._

Clint stepped forward again, posture half despondent, half rigid with threat. "I was falling apart because I got you _killed,_ you don't think knowing you survived might have helped?!" His breath came in a gasping wheeze. "I mourned you, damnit! They gave-- _Fury_ gave me your fucking _ashes_ and you have the--fuck this."

Phil's jacket fell to the floor, ignored, as he closed the distance, reached out.

"No!" Clint flinched as Phil's fingers brushed his shoulder. "Don't touch me--eep!" The last came out in an undignified squeak as Steve moved, putting himself between Clint and Phil and shoving Clint back.

"I didn't come here to--"

"To what, Coulson," Tony snapped. "To hurt him? You should have thought about that before you decided to stay dead."

Steve watched as Phil's face drained of color, as the bland everyman expression cracked and broke as his gaze flickered between Tony and Steve himself, and over his shoulder to Clint.

"You letting Stark call the shots now, Captain?"

"If I disagreed with him I'd say so, Director. As it is, he's being more generous than I would have in allowing both of you hospitality."

Fury looked around pointedly at the half-lit waiting room, reception desk, the empty conference room and dark hallway beyond. "This is hospitality?"

"You weren't invited," Tony shot back, a dark shadow at Steve's side. "Consider yourself lucky to get past the front door."

"You don't have a choice, Stark, the Avengers answer to SHIELD."

"Director." Phil's voice was weak, almost pleading, a silent _don't go there, you'll lose._

"Didn't anyone ever teach you not to show your cards early?" Tony asked cheerfully. "Because really, that is not a card you want to play right now, Fury. Take my advice and walk. The fuck. Away." The temperature in his voice dropped so fast Steve had to suppress a shiver, vague memories of ice closing over his head clouding his vision for a moment.

"You really think you can declare your independence."

"I really think we already did." Tony's words cut like knives, leaving rivers of metaphorical blood between them. Steve thought he'd never see this level without the ghostly overlay of blood and pain again, even if it was all in his mind from the start. "We just didn't have enough reason to _need_ it, so we didn't bother to say _fuck you."_

"Tony." Bruce's voice was too deep, angry and almost panicked, and accompanied by the sound of popping stitches.

"Clint, take Bruce to Hulk's room. Let him out."

"Yes, sir." 

Steve watched as Phil's eyes followed Clint back into the elevator, watched the pain and guilt blossom and deepen as the doors shut.

"You--you're just--the Hulk--"

"The Hulk is not a monster, Agent Coulson," Tony explained easily, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But then, you'd know that if you hadn't decided to play dead for the last few months. How long has it been, anyways? Don't think we haven't noticed you haven't answered. But your mobility speaks for three months? Four? Certainly long enough to be able to take care of yourself, to be back on light duty, to not be a fucking _burden_ if that's what you were afraid of."

"I love him, Mister Stark," Phil said thickly.

"You should have thought of that when you woke up," Steve answered. "I know what vows you made to one another at your wedding, Agent Coulson. They're the same vows I hope to make at my own someday, and they say everything about supporting one another through whatever challenges may come. You weren't here when he needed you -- I can blame the Director for keeping us in the dark while you were in a coma, but once you woke up? I can't think of a single reason that wouldn't just be an accusation of distrust or an outright betrayal."

"I vote for outright betrayal. The distrust is as bad as, so might as well lump it in there." Tony tilted his head with a smirk. "At least he won't have to deal with divorce lawyers. Not that I wouldn't have gotten him the best."

"He's my husband." The words were monotone, dull and washed out.

"He _was_ your husband, you mean. Those wedding vows? I know them, too, and they said _'until death do us part.'_ You died, Coulson, you died and didn't see fit to tell him otherwise. You're fucking parted." 

"I'm telling him--"

"Now? When he's moved on? The Phil Coulson I knew and respected wasn't cruel." Natasha's voice was less knife, more whip, and she made the lash felt in hot shame that flooded Phil's cheeks and neck with crimson. "I'm an Avenger." The sound of her bootheels was loud on the marble floor and then gone, elevator doors sliding open and shut again with a soft _ding._


	2. Paved With Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's past is far, far worse than his team had thought. At least, until someone decided to go behind his back and betray him, and everyone connected to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an attempt to respond to this prompt at [Avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/10266.html?thread=22102042#t22102042) (slightly edited for SPAG):
> 
> Gen or Any/Any - Tony hacks his file [abuse]  
> (Anonymous)  
> 2012-09-14 06:49 pm (local)   
> All of the Avengers received files on the other members of the team. Tony's is missing giant sections, some of it blatantly isn't true (things like the fact that SHIELD does not have it's own Hot 10 awards, and Tony certainly wasn't voted sexiest man in a ceremony organised by Fury). Every time anyone goes to get a copy of Tony's file, it's different. 
> 
>  
> 
> Then one day someone ends up with a copy that reads more like a horror story than anything else. Things like serious injuries sustained while with his father in the lab, multiple kidnappings where Howard refused to pay the ransom and Tony had to rescue himself, on one occasion killing his captor by tearing through his jugular with his teeth etc. When he's finally sent to boarding school and then college there is bullying, self-harm, drug and alcohol abuse etc. Abusive relationships because he was too young to know what he was getting in to, horrific detail about what happened in Afghanistan. 
> 
> Whoever has the file decides that Tony has given up with removing things and making it funny, he's instead decided to invent content that is horrific enough that people won't look at his file more than once. They share it with the rest of the Avengers and have a good laugh about it, and start to tease Tony about it the next time they see him. 
> 
> He doesn't react the way that they expect (they thought he'd laugh or smirk or make some kind of crass comments). Instead, the blood drains from his face and he leaves the room. He's fighting to stay in the present, trying to keep the flashbacks at bay, and this is why he didn't want people to know. Because they'd use it to hurt him. 
> 
> The horrified team begin to realize that everything in the file was true and that they've really hurt Tony.

The file Natasha gets for the op as Natalie Rushman is exactly what she expects: a childhood that spoke of a distant, formal and closely guarded relationship with parents who drank too much, academic achievements, stories from gossip rags detailing relationships all the way back to Tony's days in MIT and a stint in rehab; Stark Industries' R&D trick pony, and then Afghanistan. It's only a few sentences - a terrifyingly brief description of three months of torture, bare mention of the arc reactor. Then the things she's added on her own: palladium poisoning, relationship with Pepper, the disaster of the Expo, birth of War Machine -- everything that should be in there, everything Natasha knows already. Everything about a man doesn't play well with others, insists on being in the spotlight, alone.

And it doesn't match the Iron Man that flew a nuke into outer space, the man that invited, all but _demanded_ the rest of the Avengers move into the Tower with him.

Just because Black Widow doesn't have a _reputation_ as a hacker doesn't mean she _can't,_ and once the relief efforts in Manhattan are settled, she turns her attention back to the conundrum, hacking SHIELD's damaged systems for an unredacted, unedited (or so she hopes) copy of Tony's file.

It's much the same as the old, with the additions of the time since she'd received the original, except--

\--there's a copy of an in-house SHIELD newspaper (that doesn't exist) with a front-page article declaring Tony Stark _SHIELD's Hottest employee._

The corner of her mouth twitches upwards; she's alone, so she can allow the tiny break in her professional mask, a note of amusement at the obvious sign of Tony's own work.

She prints out a copy of the paper to share with Clint.

~~~

Clint thinks it's hilarious, and it turns into a game, hacking SHIELD for the latest nonexistent recognition or contest win Tony's slipped into his file. The others - Tony included - become aware of it during another mission, of all times.

"Hey, Iron Man? Which is it, the money, the girls, or the armor?" Hawkeye asks during a lull in the fighting - it's not that taxing a fight, six-foot neon-blue rats swarming out of the sewers, thankfully just _rats,_ but dangerous because of their numbers.

"Barring more information, all of the above? Widow, on your seven," and repulsor blasts take out another pair of oversized rodents, leaving blood and gore in a wide spray.

"Your win in the _Superhero I want to grow up to be_ contest."

"Ah, that."

Tony manages not to answer, but the confirmation that his planted Easter eggs are being hunted down and enjoyed has a new prototype bow in Clint's possession a week early - not that anyone's keeping track.

Steve and Bruce find the display of ego and sense of humor too disturbing to take real enjoyment of it, and Thor doesn't understand half the references and so turns the entire thing into lessons on pop culture (something no one is capable of denying him), but they all read the planted information, if only to see the real amusement on Tony's face when one of them makes a reference.

~~~

Clint's the one that finds it, points it out to Natasha and finally just prints a copy of the file in its entirety; this time it's almost doubled in size, no obviously humorous entries, but it's a week from Halloween, and it reads like a horror novel, or maybe a series of them.

"If it weren't now, if I'd found this first--" Natasha's seen enough, blood and inhumanity and things she won't talk about - won't, not can't, and not because she can't stomach it, because if there was one thing the Red Room taught her...

"Nah, it's just Tony saying game's over. Appreciate the head's up." Clint shrugged dismissively.

Thankfully Tony's in California, something to do with Stark Industries; plenty of time for the others to read the latest, and last, of the 'fake' personnel records. Bruce can't finish, reads a few pages of the new material before his eyes flash green, skin ripples and he slams the folder shut, fighting down the Hulk; Steve goes white, then red and mutters, "That's not funny, Tony" before pushing it away.

The freak lightning storm that rages while Thor is reading it, and rumbles until false dawn, is enough to show how he feels about it, even if he says nothing, jaw clenched.

~~~

Tony comes home a few days later, all warm smiles and relaxation; Thor thunders out of the rec room at hearing JARVIS' _Welcome home, sir_ and wraps him up in a bear hug, Tony's nose crushed against cotton-covered muscle until he has to slap ineffectually against Thor's sides, his back, in a bid to be put down.

"Hi," Tony gasps out breathlessly once he's been set on his feet again.

"Welcome home, shield brother," Thor booms quietly, still grasping Tony's arms. "It is good to see you."

"Good to see you too," Tony manages. "Think I could, you know," and he makes a meaningless gesture with one hand, mostly hidden between their bodies, but it's enough to get Thor to let go, and Tony makes it to the bar, pours himself two fingers of scotch between glances back at Thor.

It's not just Thor that's acting oddly. Bruce just _watches_ him, how he moves, like he's trying to find evidence of injury; he leaves cups of tea at his elbow, soothing and smoky. Steve--half the time, Steve is giving him disapproving looks when he thinks Tony's not looking, but Tony can't argue with the fact that family dinner consists of all of his favorites, that Steve makes sure that Tony gets his fill before he and Thor finish off any particular dish.

Natasha is as unreadable as ever, except for the silent discussions she keeps having with Clint.

As for Clint--he seems half amused, half disturbed, and still having those silent discussions.

Tony puts up with it as long as he can before he sets his coffee mug down at breakfast two days later. "All right, someone explain." He's not _positive_ that anything's actually going on, it _could_ be his imagination working overtime, the trip to California did give him more ideas than he knows what to do with right now and it could just be overflow--

\--but the way everyone just _stops_ proves him right, leaving the room in a tense silence save the sizzling of bacon on the stove.

"What's going on, and why is everyone acting like I've grown another head?" The words fall quietly, questions unanswered until Tony adds an impatient, "Well?"

"It wasn't funny, Tony." Steve's muttered answer is almost angry, grip on the frying pan tightening.

"What wasn't funny?" Tony shakes his head, brow furrowing in confusion. "Come on, guys, you've been weird about me since I got home. I haven't been playing practical jokes, I don't know what you don't find _funny."_

"The end of the Easter egg hunt, man--" Clint starts.

"Howard was a good man, he wouldn't just _leave_ you to--"

"Don't do this," Bruce says softly, hands curled around his mug of tea like it was all that was keeping the Hulk at bay.

"Wait, what? What aren't we doing, what does my dad have to do with, this isn't making any--" 

"Hey, if you wanted to let us know you were tired of winning fake awards, you could have just said so," Clint says. "I know it's almost Halloween, but you didn't have to give me the mental image of you as a twelve-year-old going overkill on a couple of two-bit kidnappers by bashing their heads in with a socket wrench."

"Clint!" Natasha's voice is sharp, quiet, Tony can't see what she does, but he can hear the startled yelp - barely - over the sudden roaring in his ears.

 _Nonononono._ Conscious thought starts shutting down, hands dropping to his sides to clench into fists, again, again, feeling slick metal under his fingers, the stench of copper and dead body--

"I didn't find it funny, Tony," Steve says again, distant, and he can't even be looking, can't--

Tony grabs for ammunition, something, _anything,_ and the coffee mug shatters, thrown, hot liquid splattering against the wall, the floor, across his cheek in a fine spray as the mutters of disbelief and disappointment go just as silent as the warnings, and he's sliding backwards over the counter, away from--

_"Come here, you brat, there's no way out of here."_

"Always a way out, always a way out _even if it's over your dead body!"_ Tony's voice goes from the whisper of a personal mantra to a throat-shredding shriek as he falls off the other side of the counter, one of the stools on the other side slowing his fall and tipping over. "No, _fuck,_ no, I'm not, I'm not--" He scrambles to his feet, goes sprawling back into the couch. "JARVIS?" It's small and desperate, a last-ditch attempt to find safety.

"I am here, sir, at your command. You are at home and safe."

"I--obviously not, not safe, never safe, damn it," and his hands are shaking, fingers digging into his eyes. There's an explosion of noise, voices raised in shock, furniture scraping across the floor, and Tony can't-- _"JARVIS!"_

"Sir, I. Am. Here." JARVIS sounds insistent, harsh, and the background voices die down. "What do you require of me, sir? You have but to ask."

"Talk to me, I need, don't let me--" _\--kill someone,_ he doesn't finish.

"Of course, sir, the elevator is at your ten-thirty. I have your suit ready and waiting, sir, if you would--"

JARVIS talks to him, at him, guiding him with his voice through and out of flashbacks and panic, to the elevator and down to his workshop and behind locked doors, through washing his hands of the blood that won't come off. His hands are raw and pink and tingling when JARVIS turns the faucet off, talks him into the suit, and he's gone, Iron Man shooting out the escape hatch and across the New York City sky.

~~~

 _'Howard would never_ do _that to a child,_ any _child, much less--'_ Steve's thought gets cut off by an explosion of ceramic, heat striping his back as the coffee hits, and he spins on one heel in time to see Tony's wide eyes, hands scrabbling at the counter's surface.

"Tony!" It's too late, too late to stop the flashback, and that's what it has to be. 

"Shield brother!" Thor all but snaps Steve's outflung arm trying to get to Tony, stopping short with a stricken look when he realizes, when they hear Tony's _'over your dead body'_ and realizes why.

It's JARVIS that gets through to him, the only one Tony seems to be able to hear. Certainly the only one Tony's responding to, with his quiet assurances.

_"Never safe, damn it."_

Time has slowed in that way trauma does, all of them on their feet now, desperate to go to him, to soothe and comfort, and Steve can hear his own voice over the other's cries of disbelief, his "No, he can't even hear us. He should be safe here--" _'But he isn't,'_ his own mind whispers.

JARVIS cuts them all off with his reply, his reminder of presence an anchor for Tony and threat for the rest of them. His tone gentles, but there is no doubt that JARVIS is entirely focused on Tony. That further interference will not be tolerated.

Even when the first thing anyone manages once Tony's gone, sealed in the elevator and on his way to whatever safety his mind has conjured, is Clint's _"You're letting him go for the_ suit?!"

"How do you suggest I stop him?" Steve asks in a depressed monotone rasp, taking the pan of of bacon off the burner. "JARVIS can fly the armor anyways, it's not like he'd let Tony get hurt."

The silence then is deafening, a silence that JARVIS would have normally filled with his own brand of British propriety.

"JARVIS?" Natasha's prompt is a bare whisper.

There's another heartbeat of weighty silence, another. "I have much more important things to see to than your well-earned insecurity." JARVIS doesn't even try to hide the protective rage, the disappointment, and even Natasha cringes back; this is Tony's home, and JARVIS runs it, JARVIS who can make their lives a living hell.

"We didn't--I thought he'd written it himself, JARVIS, I didn't--" 

"If he didn't put it there - and I think we can rule that out - we need to find out who did," Natasha says, voice hard. "And we need to do that fast."

"It wasn't Phil." Clint's voice is subdued, guilty, if firm in his certainty.

"We don't know that," Bruce says calmly; it's a forced calmness, the kind they recognize from seeing him keep the Hulk under control when he'd really rather not. "We don't know anything except that somehow Tony's real file - or something close enough to trigger flashbacks - got dumped onto SHIELD's servers."

Clint's already got his Starkphone out, lifting it to his ear. "Hey, Phil, question for you."

"What are you doing?! We can't--" Bruce hisses and stops at Clint's inscrutable look.

"Did you put Tony's real personnel file on SHIELD's servers for some reason?" Clint's fingers drum on the back of a chair as he waits for an answer, and waits, and then says _"Okay,"_ and hangs up. "Wasn't him, he's on his way here."

"We know it was someone with access, either legitimate or who could hack SHIELD," Steve says, accepting Clint's answer with a small nod.

"We know Tony can hack SHIELD, and does on a regular basis. So do Clint and I," Natasha says.

"Meaning, if we can, other people could." Steve crosses his arms over his chest and leans one hip against the counter.

"And is there no one at SHIELD who would do this unspeakable thing?" Thor asks low and growly, and thunder rumbles outside. "There are those who would see us fail."

"Fury told us Phil was dead because we needed a _push."_ Clint doesn't react when Natasha steps closer, wraps herself around him from behind in silent support.

"Fury's the one who fought for us."


	3. Pianist!Clint, because I had not even an inkling of a clue of a title for this one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That Clint was the world's best marksman was common knowledge in certain circles. That he could, arguably, play the piano just as well was almost an open secret, but don't ever let him think he has an audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least partially inspired by [The Only John Wayne Left in Town](http://archiveofourown.org/works/364902) by [gyzym](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gyzym/pseuds/gyzym).

Clint's hands were too small, far too small, but he still saw them as in fading memories, soft and papery and thin-skinned with age, fingers spreading over the worn yellow keys. He couldn't bridge for the chords, and settled for single notes, wincing at the harsh plinking, and soldiered on.

He can't make it sound like the music from the radio, not even reduced to scales and arpeggios (though he doesn't even know those words, not yet); the old upright his grandmother had left behind hadn't seen care since before she'd passed.

Still, he sings softly, humming when he can't remember the words, and makes his fingers plunk out an out-of-tune approximation.

The belt across his shoulders catches him by surprise; the uncertain melody come to a crashing halt, and a shower of curling green paint drifts to the floor.

~~~

The piano calls a siren’s song, its ill care no more hardship than the stripes painted on Clint’s body as he fights for each chord, each run of off-key notes. He asks his teacher what to do if a piano ‘sounds wrong,’ and she helps him find a service for his parents to call; he walks the eight blocks from school instead, and explains to the nice young man there about “my gramma’s piano” and “we don’t have much, but it’s all she left,” and they’re packing him in a second-hand pickup truck and knocking on the door.

Clint doesn’t understand the harried officials from the city that come two days later, he’s too busy hiding rainbowed skin and making the piano sing, its strings and hammers, keys and pedals working the way they should.

He understands all too clearly the blue and black and purple after they leave, but it’s worth it to have the piano treated right.

~~~

The orphanage is too crowded for the caretakers to keep track of him, at least since he isn’t causing trouble, and he finds his way to the church next door and its piano in the basement with little trouble. No one notices, or at least, no one cares, until it makes him twitchy, makes him paranoid, waiting for a blow that never comes.

The church organist has been listening, trying to get a feel for this kid, too quiet, too ready to fall in with his big brother when he’s given any attention at all, but slinks off to hide in the basement to play simple melodies James knows from the radio, unfamiliar ones he can’t help think are coming from the inside of the kid’s head.

The kid jerks his head up when James forgets to skip the squeaky stair. His eyes pin in terrified expectation, and turns back to the piano, hunching his shoulders and pulling his shirt up, and James just breaks.

There are fading bruises on that too-thin frame, yellow-brown and sickly green, fading purple over the knobby spine. And that he’d automatically-- “No. No, I’m not going to hit you. You come down here and play, I’ll teach you, I’ll teach you as much as you want, just...” He clatters down the rest of the stairs and stops, unsure of how to proceed.

“But...that’s how it works,” the boy says. “I don’t...”

“That’s not the way it works here,” James says firmly. “My name’s James, I play the big pipe organ upstairs. I can play the piano, too.” He sits down on the bottom stair, trying to make himself less threatening. “What’s your name?”

Silence hangs thick and heavy, and James thinks he’s not going to answer by the time the kid whispers out a “Clint” between one breath and the next.

“Well, Clint, would you like to learn to read sheet music?”


	4. Puffer!Clint chapter of what wound up becoming A Different Kind of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Phil take steps to get Clint out of his own head for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Different Kind of Magic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/602916) was originally supposed to be much longer and much angstier, with a lot more fallout as to what happened when non-Avengers SHIELD personnel found out how Clint saved Phil. This is the sort of meta, fourth-wall bit of that version that actually got written.

A small chime dings somewhere to Phil's left; he finishes and signs the form he's working on, transferring it from desktop to outbox, before pulling his laptop to the front of his desk and checking his mail.

_From: s.rogers@starknet.com_

_To: p.coulson@shield.mil_

_Subject: Thought this might help Clint._

_Dear Phil,_

_You know how Clint reacts to a shift to jaguar or golden eagle form - better in some ways, but not enough. I came across[this](http://lucdarling.livejournal.com/85106.html) and thought it might help. Don't show it to Clint._

_I asked JARVIS to find a reputable aquarium supply and put together a list. There's space for a 55-gallon aquarium in your office, along with a stand that will hold all the supplies. Let me know if/when you want it installed on the 'carrier and I'll take care of it._

_Sincerely,_

_Steve Rogers_

Puzzled (more from the dichotomy of Steve’s old-fashioned letter writing and the new proficiency at using email than the actual contents), Phil clicks the link, scrolls down past the banner, and starts reading. Two minutes later, he hits the reply button on Steve’s email.

~~~

“Thanks, Steve.” Phil can't keep his eyes off the aquarium, the handful of bright fish darting among the coral and anemones. It looks so...peaceful, and he can only hope that Clint finds it soothing.

“My pleasure, sir.” Steve takes a step closer, ghosting a hand just above the glass and watching one of the fish change direction. “I hope it helps.”

“I’m sure it will, one way or another. The pumps make for wonderful white noise, if nothing else.”

Steve nods, then, when Phil says nothing more, offers, “Clint’s on the range.”

“He’ll wander up here eventually.” Reality blues out as Phil stares at the fish tank, letting himself take a moment; then there’s a just-hard-enough clasp of support on his shoulder, and a quiet “see you later” and Steve's gone, leaving him alone.

~~~

It's another two hours before Phil hears the slight scrape of ceiling tiles, the soft susurration of cloth on metal that he knows is Clint's version of a knock on the door. "Come on in," he murmurs, not looking up from the forms stacked on his desk. He has to bite the inside of his cheek not to add the water's fine.

Clint drops to the floor behind him a moment later and stumbles two steps toward the couch.

Phil watches Clint's reaction to the new addition, watches him freeze in place, head whipping to one side to stare wide-eyed at the aquarium. Clint's all sunken eyes, stuttering breath, lightning running under his skin in his anxiety. The expression he's wearing sends chills down Phil's back, all uncertainty and terror and a desperate desire for neither. "Clint?"

~~~


End file.
